Welcome to my poetry: The True Salopian - My Dad

Last week on the 10^th of August would have been (he died in 1986) my dad’s birthday. He was born in Shropshire in 1907 and although they say Shropshire born and Shropshire bred, strong in the arm and weak in the head (or yed, as he would have said) he was far from stupid.

Even though he rarely attended school, he learnt from the University of Life, and a hard life if was. He was the son of a lay preacher (or ranter parson, as they were known in those days) and lived his entire life a stone’s (or stwun's) throw from where he was born.

He was a hard grafter, and maintained muscles like Tarzan from that everyday hard work. He was full of witty sayings, had a great sense of humour and a broad Shropshire accent, which I have to admit to having acquired. 

The True Salopian - My Dad

 Anyway, here’s my tribute to my dad.

The True Salopian

I’m an owd country bumpkin, a yokel, a hick,

I’m as common as muck and as thick as a brick,

I talks uth an accent, Shropshire and broad,

I’m as daft as a brush, and you’ll ‘ear me loff loud,

I chops sticks uth a brummock, ‘oned shiny and sharp,

And whatever the weather I’m up uth the lark,

I ‘ear the owd oolert ‘ootin’ long afore dawn,

I canna stand all them untinooks I finds in me lawn,

I climbs that owd wooden ‘ill when I’m gooin’ ta roost,

In me owd fither mattress where I’m warm as brown toast,

I goos shoppin’ in Shoosbry, there inna no ‘R’,

And if you all wants ta argue, there’s bound ta be war,

I plants me King Ed’ards, (best taters around),

On Easter’s Good Friday, in good cow mucked ground,

I brushes me ‘edges uth an owd brushin’ ‘ook,

I dunna ‘ave time fer readin’ papers or books,

Cos all of me knowledge is ‘ere in me yed,

And’ll be constantly uth me until I’m stwun jed,

I knows all of the seasons, come summer or snow,

I can read all the signs Mother Nature can show,

I watch fer the swallas ta arrive in the spring,

Listen out fer the cuckoo, ‘ear the speckled thrush sing,

I knows a good ‘arvest of berries is bleak,

Meanin’ ‘ard times fer birds in the cowd winter sleet,

I knows all the flowers which grace the ‘edgerow,

And the trees in the ‘oods, and which way the winds blow,

I knows the moon’s phases as it waxes and wanes,

I can smell where owd Raynard criss-crosses the lanes,

When I’m stung by a nettle it’s a spit and dock rub,

Then it’s wum I be gooin’ when it’s time fer me grub,

I’m resourceful; I’ve recycled since beginnin’ of time,

And as fer organic – the word should be mine,

A real countrymon’s gettin’ ‘arder ta find,

We’m a breed dying out, both in body and mind,

I be flyin’ the flag fer every ooman and mon,

‘Oo like me’s proud ta be a true Sal-op-i-an.

Thanks for your time.

The Leebotwood Poet xx